by Ken Bruen
Thus emboldened, he went in, shouted, ‘Yo … I’m home.’
No answer.
Never-no-mind — he’d grab a bite from the kitchen and begin the new life. He began to hum the truly horrendous ‘Begin The Beguine’. He hummed mainly cos he didn’t know the words. Opened the fridge. It was bare, like, completely empty, save for a note taped to a sorry lump of cheese. He read:
‘WE’VE GONE TO MY MOTHER’S. THAT’S IF YOU EVER GET HOME TO NOTICE’.
That was it.
He held on to the handle of the fridge, then muttered, ‘Now, that’s one cold note.’
Montezuma’s Revenge
The Alien admired his growing tan, thought: Yah handsome devil!
The thing about foreign holidays was you could do all the asshole things you’d always ridiculed. Such as:
1. Wear Bermudas
2. Perch shades on yer hair
3. Carry a bum bag
Reg Fenton was many things — ruthless, determined, and uncompromising. What he had never been was given to flights of fancy. He had no truck with superstitions, omens, any of that. He believed in what was in front of him. Sitting at the bar, he was drinking tequila with all the trimmings. Salt on the hand, slices of lemon and sure, it gave the rush. He suspected all the ritual was a crock, but what the hell. He said originally … ‘When in Mex!’
A tape was playing Dire Straits’ ‘Ticket to Heaven’. A song that proves, yeah, them guys did have something. Glancing out the window, he saw Stella and dropped his glass. The waiter, startled: ‘Que pasa?’
Fenton looked at him, then back to the window, she was gone. He moved to the waiter, grabbed his arm, shouted, ‘Did you see her …? Jesus H Christ … it was her!’
‘No comprende, Senor!’
Fenton let him go, tried to rein in his emotions, then staggered over to a table and sat heavily. The waiter approached, nervous as a rat. ‘Senor would like something?’
‘Yeah, get outta my face, arsewipe … no … hey … get me a tequila. Shit, bring the whole bottle.’
As the waiter got this from the bar, he put his finger to his forehead, made circular motions, whispered, ‘Mucho loco.’
The barman nodded. Tourists, gringos, Americanos … he’d seen all their shit.
I have a need
Demian in ‘Exorcist III’
Collie was euphoric. He felt the wedge of cash in his hip pocket and thought: I’m on my way … To step right into the big time. But he’d need to get heeled, get a shooter. On the Isle of Wight, he’d celled with a Yardie, one of the Jamaican gangs who terrorised North London. His name was Jamal. Out now, he kept a low profile and kept it in Brixton; the busy end of Railton Road. He had the bottom half of a terraced house. Upstairs was a fortune teller. Collie could smell the weed halfway down the street. He knocked three times like the horrendous song from the seventies.
A white woman answered, aged about thirty. Her eyes were lost, but she had an attitude. ‘What?’
‘Tell Jamal it’s Collie.’
A black arm reached out and pulled her aside. Jamal, bare chested, gave a golden tooth grin. ‘Me mon!’ Which is like ‘Hi’ … sorta.
He gave Collie a hug and then they did the series of high-fives and palm slapping.
Buddy stuff.
Inside, Dubstar were laying down a cloud and Jamal said, ‘Yo bitch, y’all git some tea fo’ my bro.’ He gave another illuminating smile. ‘She from rich white folk.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, de bitch be into Marxism and Jamal be in ho ass and trust fund.’
‘How’d you find her?’
‘She be sellin’ de Big Issue … I bought de lot, bought ho back mo crib. That be Tuesday … what day is dis, mon?’
‘Ahm … Tuesday.’
Jamal looked perplexed, then said, ‘Must be some other Tuesday. So, bro, wanna Big Issue?’
And they laughed together. Just two bros, hanging in the hood.
The woman brought mint tea in glasses and four cakes on a brass tray. Jamal said, ‘De tea be Julep like de cats in Marrakesh and de cakes be hash brownies … mo hash than cake … yo cool?’
He was.
In addition, Jamal rolled the Camberwell Carrot made famous by Withnail And I. Jamal had an added ingredient: he lightly sprinkled angel dust on the paper. It didn’t quite blast yer head off but it sure put you in orbit.
As Collie felt the countdown to oblivion he forced himself to concentrate on biz. ‘I need something.’
‘Sure, mon, whatcha be needin’?’
‘A shooter.’
‘My mon, I no do dat sheet no mo.’
Collie waited, skipped his turn on the tote, nibbled on a cake. Finally, Jamal said, ‘Less I gives mo own piece … mah personal protection. How dat be?’
‘I’d hate to leave you … defenceless.’
Big Jamal grin. ‘Sheet, I git by somehows.’ He stood up, said, ‘Gis a mo.’
‘Sure.’
The woman hunched down on the floor, lotus style. Collie could see her knickers, and more, he could see she saw. Then she raised a brownie to her mouth began to nibble …
gnaw … gnaw … gnaw.
She asked, ‘See something you like?’
‘Nope.’
‘Are you queer?’
The dust was popping along his brain and tiny colours were exploding on the edge of his vision. He didn’t answer, tried to focus on the brightness. In Stephen King’s novel It, the clown says, ‘Come into my bright lights’. Then it shows rotten razored teeth. Collie looked at the woman, half expecting her to do likewise.
The trance was broken by the return of Jamal. He carried an oil clothed bundle, sat and unravelled it. A gleaming gun slid onto the table. Collie whistled. ‘A bloody cannon.’
Jamal gave the big grin. ‘It’s a Ruger six speed, see what’s on de barrel there?’
It read ‘Magnum’.
Jamal put a closed fist down alongside the gun, said, ‘Here de icing on de cake!’ And opened his hand. Six dum dum bullets rolled out. ‘They puts a fat hole in de target.’
‘How much?’ Jamal held up five fingers. Collie shook his head. For the next ten minutes they haggled, giggled, fingered. Eventually, they settled on three. The dope had kicked in and with full ferocity. It took Collie ages to count out the price, but finally it got done.
The woman glared at them. If dope is meant to mellow you, no one had told her. And she was sufficiently out of it not to disguise her aversion. Collie looked at her, then laid a five spot on the pile. ‘Buy sweets for the child.’ Set them off again.
Jamal pulled his zipper down, said, ‘Git some o dis mama.’ She didn’t move so he added, ‘I ain’t axin you, bitch.’ He picked up the Ruger, put a dum dum in.
Collie said, ‘Hey Jam … don’t handle my weapon!’
They were off again, huge hilarity. Just ebony and ivory crackin’ up, having a walk on the wild side. The woman approached, hunkered down and took Jamal in her mouth. Collie closed his eyes. This he didn’t need to see. Loud groans followed.
‘Sheeet, arghh … fuck it …
When Collie opened his eyes, Jamal said, ‘I need a cigarette.’
The woman was wiping her mouth, a brightness in her eyes as if to say: Top that.
Collie got to his feet, said, or tried to say: ‘Time to rock ’n’ roll.’
Jamal asked, ‘Yo bro, ya wans a BJ?’
Collie looked at the woman who was now smirking. ‘Thanks, but I already ate.’
Jamal’s laughter followed him out into the street.
Collie had tucked the gun in the waistband of his jeans. At the back, of course.
Fist
‘HOW D’YA FEEL ABOUT blood sports?’
McDonald was taken aback by Roberts’ question. He’d earned some kudos, he didn’t want to blow them. ‘You mean like coursing, fox hunting?’
‘No, I mean pugilism.’
‘Ahm …
‘It’s bare fisted boxing, like Harry S Cor
bett, Diamond Jim … There’s a bout at The Elephant tonight.’
‘And we’re going to bust ’em?’
Roberts laughed, said, ‘There’ll be over two hundred punters gathered. Hard asses. We’re going to have a wager.’
‘But Guv — isn’t it illegal?’
‘Course it is, why d’ya think it’s exciting?’
As Roberts predicted, there were at least two hundred gathered. All men, and as per, the very air bristled with unspoken aggression and excitement. The ‘bout’ was to take place at the sheltered car park to the rear of the Elephant. When they got there, Roberts said, ‘Back in a mo.’
McDonald was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans, felt he smelt of cop.
A punter said, ‘Wanna drink, John?’
And offered a flask.
‘Sure.’ Best to blend. He took a swig and near choked, felt molten lava run down his throat, burning all in its path. He gasped, asked, ‘What … was … that?’
‘Surg and chicken soup.’ Surg as in surgical spirits. The infamous White Lady of south-east London drinking schools. He could only hope to fuck that the guy was kidding.
When Roberts returned, he collided with a young guy. There was a moment it hung there, then Roberts said, ‘Excuse me.’ And Collie nodded.
The fighters emerged to a mix of cheers, catcalls, whistles. Roberts said, ‘The big guy, he’s from Liverpool and evens favourite. The other is a London boy.’
Both men were bare-chested, wearing only shorts and trainers. No frills. The London boy was runtish but he had a wiry look. In contrast, the Liverpudlian was a brick shit-house. His muscles had muscle and he exuded confidence.
Roberts said, ‘Best get yer wager on.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t tell me you’re not going to have a go.’
‘Oh … right … ahm.’
‘See the guy in the black suit? He’s the bookie.’
‘OK … how much … I mean … would five be enough?’
Roberts scoffed, ‘Don’t be so Scottish … have a decent go. I’ve already dun Liverpool, so you take “the boy”.’
‘But he’s the underdog.’
‘All the better. Hurry up, now.’
A bell sounded and the bout began. Each round was approximately five minutes but it wasn’t rigid — the third round lasted ten.
McDonald had grown up in Glasgow and as a copper he was accustomed to violence. But this spectacle sickened him. It was the crunch of bare knuckles on bone. Real and stereophonic. He asked, ‘What are the rules?’
‘There aren’t … sometimes biting isn’t allowed.’
‘Sometimes?’
‘Shut up and watch … I think your boy’s in trouble.’
He was.
Bleeding from his eye and mouth, he looked for escape. None available.
Then all of a sudden he seemed to be electric, and headbutted Lou, who staggered back. Like a terrier, the boy went after him, and with three blows to the head, Lou was down.
The boy walked round him then kicked him in the back of the head.
All she wrote.
McDonald said, ‘I won!’
Roberts said, ‘We won.’
‘I thought you backed the favourite?’
‘Yeah … for us. Like you did … for us. Hurry up before yer bookie legs it.’
When McDonald collected his winnings he half considered legging it himself. Reluctantly, he handed a wedge to Roberts who said, ‘Lucky I made you get a bet on eh?’
‘Yeah … lucky.’
In the pub, Roberts said, ‘Get ’em in, lad, nobody likes a tight-fisted winner. I’ll have a brandy.’
When McDonald had followed the Morse series on TV, he’d felt it was unreal. Now he was reconsidering. Roberts took his drink and asked, ‘What’s that you’re drinking?’
‘Snakebite.’
‘Eh?’
‘It’s lager and white cider.’
Time to grow up son … get us a couple of scotches, eh?’
I had a dream (ABBA)
When Falls was discharged from hospital, it was AHA — not the Scandinavian pop group, but Against Hospital Advice. Like she could care.
The doctor said, ‘Would you consider counselling?’
‘Which would do what for me exactly?’
‘Ahm … help you get over your … trauma.’
‘I lost my baby, it’s not a trauma … and no, I don’t want to “get over” that. And I don’t expect to.’
The doctor, flustered, said, ‘I’ve taken the liberty of prescribing some medication … I …
‘No thanks.’
‘Might I suggest you reconsider?’
‘No.’
Falls took a cab home. The driver droned on about a range of topics. She neither heard nor answered him as they drove along Balham High Road. She said, ‘Here … drop me here.’
The driver saw the off licence and thought Uh-oh, said: ‘Mother’s little helper, eh?’
The words lashed her but she managed to keep control and asked, ‘How much?’ She fumbled a rush of coins and pushed them at him.
Like his brethren, he wasn’t to be hurried. ‘You’ve given me too much, darlin’.’
‘Alas, the same can’t be said for you.’
But he’d triggered something and she bought a bottle of gin. The sales assistant asked, ‘A mixer?’
‘No thanks.’
She thought gin ’n’ pain would mix enough. Her father hadn’t drank gin. He drank everything else, including water from the toilet bowl, but alcoholically maintained: ‘Gin makes me ill’.
He drank for no reason.
She had a reason.
Perhaps she’d uncovered a dual motive.
Entering her home was nigh unbearable. In her wardrobe were the baby things. She got a cup from the kitchen, sat, uncapped the bottle and poured. Said: ‘Here’s to Po,’ and drank.
Two hours later she put the baby stuff in the garbage.
The following morning she was as sick as a dog, but she dragged herself to the shower and readied her energies, knowing she was going to need them.
Arriving at the station, the desk sergeant exclaimed, ‘Good God!’ Then tried for composure. What was he to offer — sympathy, encouragement … what? He did the procedural thing — he passed the buck. ‘I’ll let the Super know you’re here … ahm … take a seat.’
Like Joe Public.
Various colleagues passed and seemed embarrassed. No one knew how to respond.
The Sergeant said, ‘The Super will see you now.’ He gave a dog smile as if he’d done a good turn. She felt her stomach somersault.
She wasn’t invited to sit by the Super. He asked, ‘How are you doing?’
‘Not too bad, sir, fit for duty.’
He frowned, looked down at his hands, then, ‘Perhaps it would be best if you took some time … the criminals will still be here, eh?’
He gave a police manual laugh. This has absolutely no relation to humour. Rather, it’s the signal for shafting. Falls waited and eventually he said, ‘Take a month, eh? Catch up on the ironing.’
Even he realised this was hardly PC, but she answered, ‘Thank you, sir, but I’d like to get back.’
Now he cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible … there may be an enquiry.’
Falls was astonished. ‘Why?’
‘There’s a question of … recklessness … Going after a villain alone … the powers that be … (here he paused to let her know: hey, this is not my idea), ‘frown on … mavericks.’
She was going to argue but knew it was useless.
He said, ‘You’re suspended on half-pay pending an enquiry.’
She considered for only a moment, then said, ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I resign.’
‘I don’t think …
She got out her warrant card, laid it on the desk and turned to go.
He blustered, ‘I’m not qu
ite through WPC.’
And she gave a tiny smile. ‘But I am … all through.’
Twenty minutes later she was home with a fresh bottle of gin.
No mixer.
Taming the Alien
Fenton could hear Celine Dion with ‘You Are The Reason’ and wasn’t sure was it real or a memory.
He stared intently at the almost empty tequila bottle. No worm at the bottom.
The Alien had followed Stella into the poor part of town. At least he thought it was her. He’d yet to catch up on her, see her full face. She was always an elusive ten yards away. Gradually, he’d been lured into the shanty area. All the evidence of dire poverty escaped him. Spotting the sign ‘CANTINA’, he’d stumbled into a shack. Now he shouted to the bartender, ‘Where’s my worm?’
‘Que?’
‘I can’t see him! Jesus … unless I ate the fucker … Can yah eat them?’
The barman shrugged his shoulders. He was about to close as the wind was up and howling. The Alien had a mess of dollars before him. The barman pocketed them, shoved a bottle of mescal into Fenton’s arms then got him outside. ‘Go, Senor, the hurricane ees here.’
‘Fuck off.’
Fenton slumped down against the shack, opened the mescal, drank deep and shuddered. Then he closed his eyes.
When the hurricane hit, the poorer areas took the brunt.
The tourist hotels, resort and apartments escaped.
Down in the shanty the Cantina was practically demolished.
It took a long time for the rescue teams to find Fenton, and by the time they got him to hospital, it was too late to save his legs.
Run for home (Lindisfarne)
Brant was finishing his first doughnut. A second, heavily sugared, sat expectant.
Nancy said, ‘I hate to rush you.’
‘You won’t, don’t worry.’
She looked at her watch. ‘You wouldn’t want to be late.’